News of the bodies floating in Blumedale's reeking drainage canal reached both the Goldings and the Haywoods within hours.

"The first few were just appetizers. If they die, so be it—cannon fodder at best," Elon said coldly. "Andrew, you might have some skills, but you haven't seen my real trump card yet."

Elon's pudgy face darkened with a sinister grin. He had not expected those initial mercs to succeed anyway—they were nothing but disposable thugs, and their deaths did not faze him one bit.

Standing at the edge of the Goldings' main hall, he clapped his hands slowly.

A thin, shadowy figure emerged, walking in with a dry, grating laugh.

"Mr. Golding, I knew you'd eventually call me in," the man rasped.

Elon spoke evenly. "300 million dollars from the Goldings, plus another 100 million from Dr. Lake. That's 400 million in total, Mr. Black Wolf. Same deal as always—the second Andrew's head hits the floor, the money hits your account."

The shadowed figure stood in the backlig